


There's Language in His Eye

by Bunn1cula



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Body Language, Ficlet, GPSC zine, Gen, pissing contest or flirting? you decide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:15:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29813136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunn1cula/pseuds/Bunn1cula
Summary: The most important thing to know about Blake, Avon knew, was that whatever came out of his mouth was at best only half-truth. For a man so concerned about the plight of honest men, Blake lied with a facility that made Vila look like Veritas in velour.Instead, Avon had long ago concluded that Blake’s candour was best revealed in his corporeality.
Relationships: Kerr Avon & Roj Blake
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6
Collections: The House Always Sins





	There's Language in His Eye

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in the 2021 Blake's 7 fanzine _The House Always Sins_.

The most important thing to know about Blake, Avon knew, was that whatever came out of his mouth was at best only half-truth. For a man so concerned about the plight of honest men, Blake lied with a facility that made Vila look like Veritas in velour.

Instead, Avon had long ago concluded that Blake’s candour was best revealed in his corporeality.

They were sat across from one another on the flight deck sofa, Blake with his knees comfortably spread apart and one generously-sleeved arm draped over the seat back between them, Avon perched cross-armed and cross-legged, taking up only as much room as required to maintain a comfortable distance of neutral space between them.

Avon was aware that the guarded posture he’d taken typically only provoked Blake’s predilections towards deconstructing him, and while generally annoying, this was in this moment exactly what Avon wanted. He twisted his lips into an incisor-bearing half-smile, daring Blake to pull on the Chinese finger trap Avon presented him as a gift of the irresistible puzzle of himself to be solved.

Blake betrayed himself with a furtive up-and-down glance over Avon’s compactly composed body, but when he brought a hand up and jammed a knuckle between his teeth, the self-sabotage was complete.

That’s right, Blake, Avon wanted to say, easing only incrementally into the cool leather cushion behind him. Tell me what you think you know; what you believe you’ve deduced from scrutinising my behaviour and speech patterns and the habits you think I’ve subconsciously exhibited for your analysis.

Avon held Blake’s self-assured gaze in his own warped, frozen leer, knowing that Blake would judge any adjustment of his expression as a signifier of defeat. And Avon would not be defeated — even if it took sitting here, unmoving, until he was a grinning, desiccated skeleton.

It’s your choice, Blake had told him. Stay or leave, it was Avon’s decision. As if Avon needed Blake to tell him this. As if it could possibly be true. As if Blake could know anything about Avon’s intentions toward him or, indeed, any _thing_ at all.

As if in smug response to Avon’s thoughts, Blake managed to lounge his prodigious build even more indecorously over the sofa. It was so typical of him to drape himself all over the furniture like it should be grateful to be adorned by him, to supplicate and support him. On behalf of himself and the rest of the crew Blake continually took for granted, Avon stifled a hiss of disapproval. He coiled himself tighter, anticipating some cutting and utterly wrongheaded rejoinder to his steadfast refusal to engage in Blake’s ridiculous test of wills.

Blake, instead, tipped his head back and snorted a deep, hearty laugh. He slapped his hands on his knees, stood up, and patted Avon affectionately on the shoulder while Avon’s blood glaciated in his vessels.

The lofty, arrogant prick, thought Avon as Blake traipsed off the flight deck. The delusory, castle-building fool.

The infuriating, intuitive, and in this case perfectly correct, absolute bastard.

At least, Avon consoled himself, unfurling his rigid limbs, their fearless (and entirely predictable) leader hadn’t insulted him with any of the lumbering white elephant praise he bestowed upon everyone else.

How many opportunities had there been to leave? Cygnus Alpha, XK-72, Horizon. Exbar. The Host Planet of Philosophical Fleas.

_Avon might run._

Yes, he might have, Avon regretted, had he not heard Blake say it.

  
  



End file.
